


24 Days of Kirk-mas

by zjofierose



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Advent Calendar, Angst with a Happy Ending, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Feels, Gift Giving, K/S Advent Calendar, Light Angst, M/M, Miscommunication, spock is perplexed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-10
Updated: 2017-12-10
Packaged: 2019-02-13 10:59:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12982620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zjofierose/pseuds/zjofierose
Summary: Jim Kirk likes a good secret. Spock's never met a mystery he can't let go. Feelings ensue.





	24 Days of Kirk-mas

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to @the_deep_magic for the (live!!) beta. Many thanks also to @amandawarrington for her forbearance in dealing with me, and her trust that I would actually post when I said I would, even if all signs pointed to the contrary. My apologies for any remaining weirdness/inconsistencies/dumbness- November kicked my ass, and December's just been straight up busy.
> 
> Written for the K/S Advent Calendar 2017.

The first thing that shows up in his quarters is a small stone. It appears on his dining table, right in the middle- unhidden, but with no clue to its origin.

Spock picks it up to examine it more closely, and finds it cool to the touch and polished perfectly smooth under his fingertips. It is pyramidal in shape, exact lines drawing to clean points on each of the five corners, the smooth, dark orangey-red of it reminding him sharply of the sands of Vulcan-that-was. 

“Computer, identify material of the item in my hand.”

“Stone, a variety of the silica mineral chalcedony, containing iron oxide impurities. Commonly called carnelian. Origin: Earth. Also found on Mars, several moons of Jupiter, and the planet Vulcan, before its destruction.”

He can feel that the small object has warmed in his hand, the fiery color of it now radiating both light and warmth into the room. Who had put it here, and how? Perhaps more importantly, why?

“Computer, list all access to these quarters in the last eight hours, including by door or by teleporter.”

“In the last eight hours, there has been no access to these quarters.”

Someone able to cover their tracks, then, which narrows it down to mostly the Engineering department. Of those, he can only imagine Scotty being bold enough to access Spock’s quarters unauthorized, though he can’t imagine a reason for it. Chekov is also capable of it, though again, why? Uhura could likely figure it out if she were so inclined, but she’d be much more likely to simply walk in the door. Which leaves, of course, the captain. 

He sets the pyramid back on the table, and dresses for his shift. 

\--

The next morning there is a small book of verse waiting beside the pyramid. 

Spock picks it up, turning it over in his hand. He remembers this book; he’d admired it a flea market on space station Echo Three several months ago. More accurately, he’d admired it while he was  _ alone _ , and thus its appearance here, later, is deeply mystifying. 

It’s definitely the same book; it’s previously owned, and there are notations in the margins in a language with which he is unfamiliar, and which were part of why the book had charmed him initially. He’d considered buying it for Nyota at the time, but had been undecided as to whether to get it for her or for himself, and had ended up getting beamed away to deal with an emergency before he’d made a decision.

It is a thoughtful gift, if a little… he thinks “creepy” is the word Dr. McCoy would use, due to the implications it gives of him having been watched. Nonetheless, he finds as he draws a finger down the spine that it pleases him. 

\--

“A pyramid? Why would I give you a pyramid?” Jim Kirk’s face is a picture of surprise and confusion, his blue eyes puzzled. “And a book of poems? Sounds more like Uhura to me.”

Spock knows, he  _ does _ , how well the captain can dissemble, but the air of total bafflement his captain wears does make Spock wonder in spite of himself. Perhaps he is wrong in his suppositions after all. It could be that this is some sort of elaborate prank, the point of which he has not yet ascertained. Or a dare, or a joke. There are as many possibilities as there are illogical human emotions.

“There are no traces of any intruder in my quarters, Captain, which means that it must be someone using the transporter.” Spock says, and the captain nods in agreement. “However,” Spock continues, “there is no record of any transports to or from my quarters, which means that whomever is transporting the items in is capable of erasing their actions from the log.”

“Mmm.” The captain nods again, pursing his lips in thought. “Not too many options, then.”

“No, sir,” Spock answers. “I believe that it must be either you, Ensign Chekov, or Commander Scott.”

The captains’ eyes twinkle. “Have you asked Keenser? Maybe he’s got a crush.”

Spock does not bother to reply, merely lifts an eyebrow and turns back to his station.

\--

Three nights later (small logic puzzle; an old fashioned postcard from Toronto; fresh flowers), he notices from across her table that Uhura’s earrings are new, neo-modern and of a pleasing hue that complements her skin. 

She notices him looking and smiles, reaching up to touch one absently.

“Nice, aren’t they? Jim got them for me.” She sighs, rolling it in her fingers. “Who knew a smart-ass hick would have such good taste in jewelry?”

Spock slides his translation over to her, watching as she skims it, marking the padd occasionally with her stylus as she corrects his work. 

“The captain gave them to you?”

“Well,” she rolls her eyes, “not technically. They appeared in my quarters overnight, just like all the rest of the gifts, but. You know.”

No, Spock thinks to himself, he does not know, but he makes a noncommittal sound in response. 

“Oh,” Uhura says in surprise, looking up. “You didn’t know.”

“Why does he do it?” Spock asks, “where is the logic in pretending that it is not him?”

Uhura smiles, a far-off look in her eye. “You know, I’m honestly not sure why he does it. Maybe it was a family thing, and we’re his family now? Maybe it’s just a whim, who can tell with him.” She looks a little wistful, and Spock remembers suddenly that she’s known the captain, known Jim, far longer than he has. “He started it when we were all in the Academy- as far as I know it was just me, Gaila, and Bones that he did it for. I guess you’ve been added.” She looks sharply at Spock. 

“Added to what?”

“His Advent calendar.” She laughs at Spock’s blank expression. “The 24 days of Christmas? No? It’s a human tradition.”

“I’m familiar with many Christmas traditions,” Spock tells her, and it comes out more peevishly than he intends, but she generously ignores it. 

“I’m not sure when it originated, but it was a thing done mainly for children,” she says, passing the padd back and rising to walk to the synthesizer for two cups of tea. “Each day of the month of December up until Christmas Day, they would receive a gift. Usually something small and trivial, often all presented together in an elaborate card or series of boxes that were numbered.”

“Very ritualistic,” Spock says thoughtfully, wrapping his fingers around the warm mug.

“Yeah,” Uhura shrugs. “Humans love their holiday celebrations.”

Spock thinks involuntarily of his mother, of her silhouette against the Christmas tree lit up with twinkling colored lights. 

“They do.”

Uhura smiles gently at him. “Just enjoy it. He gets twitchy if you push him too much about it. It’s better to just roll with it, and make a fuss of liking the ‘mysterious’ presents. Here,” she slides the padd back across the table to him, “page six.”

Spock takes it and turns it to face him, nodding thoughtfully as he examines the red mark highlighting a grammatical error. Half his mind is on the exercise, but the other has become lost in picturing the captain as a small, tow-headed child, waking each morning to a new present. Were they wrapped for him? Or presented in the sort of elaborate set-up that Uhura describes? Was it from his mother, or some friendly relative?

“It’s the jussive here, not the cohortative,” Uhura says, tapping the padd in front of him.

“Of course,” he agrees, dragging his focus back to where he sits in a small metal ship hurtling through the blackness of space, “the jussive. Thank you.”

\--

He thinks he would have figured it out even without Uhura’s help after a few more days, because the collection of items which continues to appear in his quarters is so varied in type, location of origin, and quality, that he can’t imagine any other single being assembling them all. They’re also so completely and uniquely suited to him that his mind boggles to think that this is happening for at least three other people: it’s an astonishing amount of work to collect and distribute this many small gifts to multiple persons every day for nearly a month, particularly when one of those people is on a starship in a completely different sector of space. It speaks, in its own oblique way, to the captain’s skills - to his dedication, to his focus, to his deep knowledge of his crew, as well as the scientific and engineering skill required to complete the delivery without a trace.

Spock installs a shelf on the wall by his meditation nook. He’s never kept much in the way of physical possessions, choosing to keep his life rather minimalist; easy to pack quickly and without much to lose. Suddenly, though, it seems he has what his mother would call “tchotchkes”, and he finds he wants to see them, so he puts up the shelf and arranges the items on it, beginning with the small pyramid on one end and leaving a long empty space to the other. He set up a force field over the flowers the day he got them; he’ll let them go the way of all things after this is over, but he finds it deeply satisfying to see the gifts in order, each with its own space and significance, proceeding along his wall in a progressive march of demonstrated care.

\--

And yet, for all his focus, for all his determination, for all of the years of his life spent in controlling himself through every twitch, fidget, and stray thought, Spock has never been patient. His elder self has confessed that it is a trait they share, and that while the elder’s time at Gol had taught him to sublimate it, the feeling itself had never truly gone far. It’s both a relief and a disappointment to Spock to know that impatience is so deeply baked in him that even the most stringent meditation won’t budge it. 

Days twelve (a very thoughtful container of Spock’s favorite tea), thirteen (a long-burning beeswax candle that smells faintly of honey), and fourteen (an illogical toy with a metal mechanism which, when pushed repeatedly, makes a tiny tin Christmas tree spin around and open up to reveal packages inside while lights circle the spinning disc), and Spock can’t help but begin to dwell on it. Why does the captain do such an illogical thing? Does he intend to do this for the rest of each person’s life? How can such a thing be sustainable? What if, one year, he is unable to do this? Will he feel he has failed? (Spock knows he would.) What circumstances would cause someone who is currently getting the gifts to be removed from the privileged list of gift recipients? Where does the captain get these gifts? Where does Jim even  _ store  _ all of these gifts?

It begins to irritate him, niggling in the back of his head as he takes his shift, harassing him as he meditates. Does Jim also do this for his mother and his brother? Is he in fact delivering gifts simultaneously every day to  _ six  _ different people in four different locations? How can he find the time between exploring the galaxy and dealing with Starfleet bureaucracy to go  _ shopping _ ?

By day nineteen (a hand-thrown ceramic mug that sits perfectly in Spock’s cupped palm), he can barely look at the shelf of gifts as he places the latest item in its appointed spot. Why does Jim think he needs a new cup? The replicated vessels have always functioned perfectly well; why waste resources and space on a more permanent item, which will no doubt fall from its position on the wall and shatter in the next firefight they encounter, probably sometime in the next week? It is irrational, and illogical, and Spock finds himself so agitated over the complete absurdity of it all that he is compelled to meditate for twice the length of time he usually spends.

On day twenty-two (elegantly refurbished fountain pen), Spock’s mind catches on the thought of how unfortunate it is that no one does this for the captain, given that he so clearly is attempting to create the environment of love and care which eluded him as a child. Spock can’t un-see the image his mind brings up of Jim dispatching each gift one by one, only to sit alone and bereft in his barren quarters, unable to take credit for the presents he’s spent all year painstakingly preparing for the friends and family he won’t even allow to thank him. Spock has to breathe in through his nose and out through his mouth where he sits on his new meditation rug (day sixteen) until he feels capable of rising and dressing without storming straight to the captain’s quarters and demanding to know what Jim thinks he’s accomplishing with this exercise in self-extension. He forces himself to sit there even longer when it occurs to him to wonder whether Jim is also doing this for the elder Spock, and consequently ends up late for his shift .

\--

By the twenty-fourth, he is no longer sleeping. He is sitting awake and alone, waiting silently in the dark for the telltale whisper of a transporter beam across his silent quarters. When it comes, particles winking into an existence with a muted hum, he’s beside the table in a heartbeat. He’s barely able to wait for the small package to complete its rematerializtion before he seizes it in his hands and pulls the paper from the small box. It’s the first one that’s been packaged, but he can’t take the time to ponder or care what that might mean; he’s too busy revealing the gift. 

His eyes stare at it a moment before his brain catches up, but when it does, he staggers, clutching at the back of the chair nearest him while he forces himself upright. His vision tints green for a long moment, and he breathes carefully through his mouth in an attempt at calm before he finally breaks altogether, snatching the gift from the box in front of him and striding from his quarters into the empty corridor. 

He expects to find Jim awake, given that the transport had just occurred, and so he simply overrides the door code on the captain’s quarters, storming into Jim’s main room before he even notices that the lights are off.

“Spock?”

He turns toward the voice that issues from the doorway on his left, and sees the faint glow of a white undershirt in the gleam of the emergency strips. The dim lighting catches the motion of Jim’s arm as he rubs at his eyes.

“Computer, lights.”

Jim squints at him blearily, one side of his hair sticking straight up, and for a nausea-inducing second Spock thinks he’s got it all wrong, that the gifts are from someone else entirely, before it occurs to him that the transports could simply be automated and his anger takes over again. He takes a step forward as Jim opens his mouth to speak.

“How. Dare. You.” Spock gets out, his fingers clenching and unclenching around the small piece of metal in his hand. “How  _ dare  _ you make my mother a part of your little game.”

“Spock, what?” Jim looks completely confused, his face crinkling up in dismay. “What have I done wrong?”

“This whole thing,” Spock answers, striding closer, “has been a set up by you from the beginning. A plea for attention, the actions of a needy, illogical child, reaching out for whatever he can get.”

Jim’s face goes abruptly stony,the transition between sleepily befuddled and closed off so fast Spock feels sick. Jim folds his arms across his chest, and Spock feels like he’s lost something, but he can’t fathom what in the face of his own pulsing fury. 

“I’m sorry, I must have misunderstood. I thought you’d started to grow a heart in that cold Vulcan chest of yours. My apologies, I won’t make that mistake again.”

“Everything is this to you, a game, a prize.” He’s within reach of Jim now, and it’s only his last shreds of self-preservation that keep him from reaching out, from seizing the front of Jim’s shirt and shaking him like a rag doll until he understands. 

Jim shares no such compunctions.

“A  _ game _ , huh?” He thumps Spock hard in the chest, sneering. It’s the same toothy smirk that Spock’s seen so many times directed at the  _ other  _ in the room, the enemy they face together, whether Starfleet, alien, or unknown. It’s disconcerting to see that look directed at him; it’s been years since he’s been on the receiving end of this edge of his captain. “So there it is - all you really think of me, after all this time. That I’m some pathetic idiot, using my ill-gotten genius to prank my colleagues in a bid for the love I never got as a child.” He lifts his chin, and Spockfeels sick. “I’m sorry I ever thought to include you. I should have known anything that threatened to make you  _ feel  _ would be too much for you. Forget I even bothered.” He turns his back. “Get out, Spock. Take your damn present and get the hell out of my quarters.”

Jim’s voice is tired, and all of the fight goes out of Spock in a rush. He feels dizzy with the aftermath of the adrenaline, and unclenches his fingers, holding his hand up to examine the perfect pinpricks where the edges of the metal charm have cut into his palm. He exhales slowly. 

“She was wearing this when she died, Jim.” He forces his voice to be steady even as Jim turns around, his blue eyes wide with surprise and dawning comprehension. “How did you get it.”

“Oh, god.  _ Spock _ .” Jim steps forward, his hand reaching out to connect with Spock’s arm. Spock lets it stay there, steadying him as he trembles. “I had  _ no  _ idea. I’m so sorry.” 

“How did you get it.”

“It’s not the same one.” Jim peers at the necklace in Spock's hand, reaching a finger out absently to trace the shape of the star, the impression of it in Spock’s skin. “Or, it is, but not really.”

“My elder self.” It all falls together suddenly, and Spock leans into Jim’s reassuring touch to ground himself as it processes. Of course. His elder self has told him that he outlived both his parents, that they died at ripe old ages, happy and content on Vulcan-that-still-is-but-not-here. 

“Yeah. I asked him months ago if he had anything, any family heirlooms, anything that you might have ended up with if Vulcan were still here. He didn’t tell me what it was, just that it should stay in the family, and that he’d be honored for me to give it to you.” Jim’s face is earnest. “I had no idea it would throw you for such a loop, Spock. I am so. Sorry.”

Spock nods, unable to speak. He folds the necklace back up in his hand, his mind watching again as his mother falls, over and over, her hand reaching for him. He clears his throat, refocuses. 

“Jim,” he says, then hesitates. Jim’s face is open, questioning, the cowlick of hair bobbing ridiculously above his ear as he nods. “Why? Why do you do all this?”

The captain shrugs, looking at his bare toes on the thinly carpeted floor and shoving a hand through his hair, making it stick up even more. He’s bashful, and Spock carefully catalogs this moment as one of the few true and open moments he’s been allowed to see. 

“I just wanted you to be happy,” Jim says and looks up again to meet Spock’s eyes. He settles a hand on Spock’s shoulder, palm cool and strong. “It’s just… what I do for my family. For mom, for Sam. Bones. Uhura. For Gaila.” He shrugs again, his expression determined, almost defensive. “Old you says that our relationship will define us both. I think it already has.”

Spock lets himself be pulled in, Jim’s arms wrapping around him as their foreheads meet, one warm and one cool. His mother’s necklace is hard and comforting in his hand, and he lets his eyes close. 

“Thank you, Jim. For…for all of it.”

“You’re welcome, Spock.” Jim’s voice is a whisper, a rush of air against his cheek. “Merry Christmas.”

  
  
  
  



End file.
